Lost and Found
by Ben Jackson
Summary: Sam thinks he and Al have leaped into the Amazon to discover a lost Inca treasure, but when Al is shot, things quickly become a matter of survival. Part 3 of the Two Leapers series.
1. Chapter 1

If there was one thing Sam learned over his years in the leaping business, it was to always expect the unexpected. Nevertheless, he always ended up swiss-cheesing that rule somehow, and so he'd been pleasantly blindsided to find himself suddenly leaping with his best friend. And considering that he'd cut off contact with the Project and resigned himself to a life of solitary leaping, it was a stunning—but welcome—turn of events. They'd leaped together before, sure, but never on such an extended basis—partners. Al was here, with him, traveling through time to put right what once went wrong, and for the first time in a long time, the last leap had ended with Sam feeling confident that the wrong had been put right. For the first time in a long time…he felt truly, genuinely happy. Ages had gone by trapped in a nebulous, uncertain void; this time it felt pure. It was damn good to be sure. Before this, he'd begun to wander off the path.

Leave it to Al to set him back on course.

If there was one thing Al learned over his handful of days in the leaping business, it was that making rash decisions can put you in some hot water. Like stranding yourself in time with no contact to your present, for a very specific instance. You'd think he would've learned something from Sam in that department. But as they say, nothing ventured, nothing gained, and finding Sam was a big fat gain. So Mission 1: accomplished. Mission 2: …well, he'd figure out Mission 2 later. For now, he was just glad to have his best friend back. And hey, helping three runaways ain't a bad bonus. Say, that was one more thing he remembered! Out of all the side effects of leaping, swiss-cheesing was his least favorite, so he was grateful for whatever stayed in his noggin. They'd done a good deed. Maybe, possibly, by some small percentage, he could get the hang of this leaping thing.

Hey, if Sam Beckett could do it, so could Al Calavicci.

Something wriggled in Sam's hands. Curious. As he blinked away the remaining light from the leap, his vision cleared and gave him full view of the green snake between his fingers.

"AAHHH!" Sam's hands popped open faster than a cork stopper; he reeled back into a confused Al behind him.

"What? What is—AAHHH!" Al's eyes bugged out when he saw the animal slithering away, sending him a foot into the air as he jumped fearfully and came back down with a splat. He wasn't a fan of snakes either. "Oh, wh—Ahhh, look at this, Sam!" Nose crinkled with distaste, he examined the dung now covering his already-muddy boots. "Not _again_! Yuck!" Hadn't he stepped in enough crap the last leap?

But Sam was no longer paying attention. While the older Italian cursed his rotten luck and tried to scrape off his shoes on a tree trunk, a sparkle in the brush caught the scientist's eye. Stooping down next to it, he pulled away the greenery and his face lit up in awe.

"Al."

"Now I'm gonna stink all—what?"

"Come look at this."

Begrudgingly, Al trudged over. "Sam, did you see what I stepped in? I—" But his jaw went slack, his annoyance vanished. "Wowza…"

The glimmer, caked with spots of dried mud, but still shining brightly, was a large golden cup, engraved with an intricate design and embellished in turquoise. The two of them could only stare in amazement.

"Oh boy…" they breathed.

"What is it?" Al at last asked with interest, "Gee, that's gotta be worth a few smackeroos…"

Carefully scooping up the sublime find, Sam found the cup had surprising heft to it. It was definitely solid gold; not overlaid. Al's assessment of it being worth a few "smackeroos" was correct. "It's a cup. Maybe South American…?" Sam deduced, fingers stroking gingerly across the design. He took note of the jungle around them. Had they leaped outside of the States?

"That looks pretty old, Sam."

"A few hundred years, at least. Here, see for yourself." Handing the cup to an awestruck Al, Sam stood up to survey their surroundings. "So question is, when are we now?"

Following his lead, Al got to his feet and squinted at the trees. "For all this place tells us, we could be in the Jurassic period."

"Something tells me we didn't leap back that far."

"Well you just whistle if you see any dinosaurs runnin' around."

"Hey, there's our things," Sam told him, spotting a couple of large packs nearby, "This should give us some clues."

The unwieldy packs were full of trekking gear, supplies, mostly dateless save for a tin first aid kit that indicated the 40s or 50s by its design. And some notes. Scribbled in difficult to read writing, Sam spied a date on top: "May 12th, 19…" He pulled the paper closer. "1952." He looked up curiously. "Hey, that's before I was born. That must mean we're following your lifetime too."

"Say, that's right…" Hovering over his shoulder, Al was distracted by the horrible handwriting. "Jeez, who can read this chicken scratch? Hold on, that says somethin' about snakes there…" He shuddered. "Man, I hope this leap has nothin' to do with snakes. I hate snakes."

" _Senors_."

"AH!" Both men spun around with a start at the sudden third voice.

The gangly Hispanic man flashed them a strange look, but he moved on without comment. "It's getting dark," he said, nodding his head back, "We should return to camp."

"Camp. Yeah…" Sam agreed uncertainly, hoping for him to take the reigns.

"Lead the way," Al suggested to the man, gesturing ahead. Again they received an odd look, but the man moved forward. Sam exchanged a grateful glance toward Al as they picked up their heavy packs.

"I'd suggest you hurry," the man said, "You don't want to be lost at night in the Llanganates." And he continued into the trees.

Al buckled his straps faster, and Sam nearly choked.

" _…dmiral Calavicci."_

A slight twinge behind his eye. Al's head whipped to the right. There in the trees, sticking out like a sore thumb, was a figure in a white lab coat.

"Al!"

The urgent whisper distracted Al for a moment, and when he looked back the figure was gone. Huh. Must be his imagination acting up. He coulda swore someone was there though. But who would be out here in a lab coat?

"Al!" Sam whispered more urgently, "Did you hear what he said? The Llanganates!"

"So? That and a dime will get you a cup of coffee."

"Al…" Sam said pressingly, leaning in closer. He clamped his hand on his arm. "This is where the Incas supposedly hid their gold. That cup we found could be part of a lost treasure!"

"A lost Inca treasure?" Al's voice was laced with a heavy dose of skepticism, his eyelids half closed.

Pacing the tent with giddy excitement, Sam told the story without missing a beat. "In the 16th century, when the conquistadors invaded this region, the Inca offered them a roomful of gold artifacts in exchange for their captured emperor. But when they discovered he was killed, the legend says they hid the treasure somewhere in these mountains. A treasure that would include something like this." Barely containing his fervor, he held up the gold cup proudly.

"But you said it was a legend," Al pointed out dryly.

"Well, the details about how much gold there was vary," Sam admitted, "but the existence of the gold was documented and the consensus is that _something_ was hidden."

"And you think that cup could be part of it?"

"Why not?"

Al's eyes slid so far to they side they were in danger of drifting away. "Because it sounds like a load. Think about it; if a giant treasure trove of gold were hidden out here, don't you think after 400 years someone would've found it?"

"Have you seen where we are? The Amazon is a huge place! Besides…" Sam shrugged nonchalantly. "…maybe that's what we leaped here for."

"Get real, Sam."

"C'mon, Al. Where's your sense of adventure?" He spread out his hands grandly, and Al waved him away. "Why're you so skeptical all of a sudden anyway? I thought you were all about legends and myths. What about the mummy's curse?" The last question accused with his own skepticism.

"A curse is one thing, but a lost treasure?" Al shook his head; this was all very silly. "It's a load of Indiana Jones baloney, Sam. We live in the real world. Besides, since when do you care about striking it rich? It's not like it'll matter when we leap out."

Sam's face scrunched up with confusion. "Who cares about getting rich? Do you realize what a significant find this would be? We'd make history!"

Of course that's what he cared about. Al should've known better. Sam had always had a fascination with archaeological discoveries; it tied into his love of history. Although...if Al thought about it purely from a monetary perspective, he supposed he could see the appeal. He couldn't fault Sam for wanting to believe. Finally loosening up, he cautioned with a soft snort, "I appreciate the enthusiasm, Sam, but I wouldn't put all your eggs in one basket with this one. What're you doing?"

Already distracted, Sam was leafing through more sheets of paper they'd found inside the tent. "Looking for more clues about who we are…" Keeping his eyes on the writing, he handed a small portion of his stack to Al, who automatically took them for his own perusal. "Whoever wrote these notes signed them Edward Cooper…"

"Yeah, and there's somethin' here about two other people on this expedition," Al added, bringing the paper closer to his face, "his brother Robert and someone named Barry Butler."

"It looks like he's cataloging the animals, he must be a zoologist," Sam concluded.

Al sighed with relief and put a hand over his stomach. "Good, it's not just snakes."

"And I'm willing to bet the one holding the snake is the zoologist, so that'd make me Edward."

"So who am I, Bobby or Barry?"

"Bobby! Eddie!" The two of them jumped at the voice outside, papers nearly flying in every direction. This was getting to be a habit. "You gonna stay in there all night?"

After exchanging a look, Sam said, "Guess that answers our question."

Outside, they were greeted by someone dressed in similar khakis, a handsome gentleman whose dimpled chin was broken up by a prominent scar, the only imperfection in his features. He had set up a tiny fold-out table near the freshly started fire and was pouring himself a drink. Crow's feet crinkled jovially around his baby blue eyes when he spotted them and raised his cup. "Nice of you to join me!"

"Hi, uh, Barry," Sam replied as they joined him by the table. They politely declined when he offered the bottle to them.

"God, this place is beautiful." Barry gazed at the plant life around them, the greenery blinking in and out of the crackling firelight. "I've spent all day mapping and it seems I've covered nothing at all. I could spend another month here and barely go over a fraction of the area." He took a healthy gulp of his drink.

Right then and there, Sam decided he liked him. Right down to a T, he had the appearance of a rogue adventurer he'd imagined in one of those novels he read as a kid. He was handsome, but he had hands that were calloused and dirty; hands that weren't afraid to do some work. His healthy appreciation of the beauty around them endeared Sam to him; he compared this to Al, who would likely much rather be in Vegas.

"How did you fare today?"

Sam and Al exchanged a look, wondering if they should divulge their discovery to the other man. Al shrugged. What did they have to lose? "Well…we found something," Sam admitted. Darting quickly back into the tent, he reemerged with the cup in tow. Upon the reveal, Barry straightened up with a look of astonishment. "What do you think?"

Near their own tent, the man who had led them back and a second guide also took notice.

"Damn!" Barry leaned in closer; his nose was inches from the gold. "Do you realize what this could be?"

"Part of a lost Inca treasure?" Al provided, only slightly sarcastic.

"You read my mind, Bobby!" Barry responded with a grin, "Gentlemen, we could be looking at a piece of history. Question is….what do we do with it?"

Sam's lip slowly curled, caught up in the thrilling possibilities. He leaned forward, making an executive-leap decision, "Tomorrow we go treasure hunting." He felt, in his heart, that's what they were there for.

Responding with an uproarious laugh, their companion raised his own cup again. "I'll drink to that!" And Sam clinked the artifact against the other man's drink in a toast. Barry clapped his arms around them in excitement. Even Al was catching their enthusiasm.

Except, not entirely. There was something pensive about him, some distracting thought that removed him a bit from the situation, but it had nothing to do with his skepticism about the gold and Sam's laser-focus on it.

Leaping was a hell of a thing to get used to already, as it was much different than simply Observing. Leaping was getting into the thick of it, stepping into someone's shoes and mucking around with their life. That was a lot of responsibility! It also meant a more emotionally and physically demanding role, something which he wasn't sure he was prepared for. But he knew it was better than just before he stepped into the accelerator. Here, he had Sam. He could see him, touch him, protect him from his own stupid self. Here, he was…well, he was happy.

But he was also remembering. More, that is. Those hazy little details from before, sharper in focus now, detailing moments previously lost from his life, but most importantly from his last days at home. Which, well, wasn't entirely unknown to him, but now he knew exactly _what_ Sam had said and did, _why_ he was feeling so lonely and confused and then hurt. The echoes of his feet in empty Project hallways, the bitter taste of a long since smoked cigar lingering on his lips. The sadness of knowing that he could've done something to stop him, if only Sam had trusted him enough to let him know.

Oh! But then…wowie, he'd found him! He'd sure had. He'd set out to do it, and he did, and that was no small feat. Yep. Those empty days were over. And now, uh…now there was this.

And, as he assured himself, he was happy now.

 _"Fred! Fred, stay with me! Someone call 9-1-1!"_

 _The frail older man seemed even more fragile in Sam's arms, his pale face contorted in pain. But moments ago he'd suffered a massive heart attack; there was nothing that could be done for him now unless he—until he made it to the hospital._

 _"Please hold on," Sam pleaded. His pulse was weak. "You're going to be okay, just hold on."_

 _He'd thought he'd been here for his leapee's daughter. She fit the profile: a troubled youth, combative, possibly into drugs. The most logical reason for the leap would be to set her on the right track, save her from herself. Without anyone to guide him, he made his most educated guess, a system which had so far been successful, even if just barely. He hadn't even spared a passing thought to his kind old co-worker at the convenience store, a quiet man who kept to himself. To Sam, he had seemed at the time utterly irrelevant._

 _And now he was dead._

 _What good was he now? How could he trust himself to save anyone, when he didn't have the answers? What right did he have to be there in the first place?_

 _Sam had failed._

Breath burst into his lungs and he awoke with a start. He was back in Ecuador in 1952. The present reality coming back to him, he sighed calmly and laid back down. He hadn't thought about that leap since…well, he didn't know how long he'd been on his own, but sometime before Al had come into the picture. Some leaps he remembered it; others he didn't. Always he felt the guilt. There must've been other incidents too, if the holes in his mind allowed it. He was glad they didn't this time.

But things were different now. With Al by his side, he wouldn't make those kinds of mistakes.

A loud, exhausted sigh. Sam could see Al trailing a bit behind him and Barry, struggling with the over-large pack he was carrying. Just ahead of them, their guides (they'd learned their names were Ivan and Santiago) were leading them back to the area where the cup had been found. They were all slightly over-prepared, just in case they found something and decided to stay overnight, with some basic supplies to hold them over, but unfortunately that meant they had extra weight to carry. And though Al would never say anything and give away his age, he was in his 60s, and definitely not in the same shape as the other men. And actually, Sam was finding the territory pretty strenuous too.

"Hey," Sam called ahead, "let's take a break, huh?"

The others agreed, their guides keeping to themselves while Barry traipsed to the river up ahead. Al cast a grateful look to Sam, seating himself on a large rock with exhaustion.

"Thanks, Sam," he gasped. He took a generous gulp from his canteen and wiped his mouth before requesting, "Next time we leap, let's go somewhere with air conditioning, alright?"

"You won't hear any arguing from me," Sam grinned, sitting close by and following Al's actions. The two of them watched the river for a short time, listened to the sounds of the rainforest, and Al slightly distant and adrift. An unspoken question hung in the air as thick as the humidity, so Sam elected to just be upfront. "So what's up with you?"

Al pulled at his sticky shirt to fan himself, stating obviously, "It's hot, Sam."

"You know what I mean. Something's on your mind, so spill."

A beat. Al's eyes slid toward him hesitantly, and then he shrugged a single shoulder. "Well," he sighed, "it's, uh, it's just…" A pause for thought. "I leaped to find you, Sam, and, uh, and I did. Which took a lot less time than I thought it would, to be honest…"

"And…?"

"And, well…now what?" Sam knitted his brows. Al met his confused gaze and shrugged again. "I mean, I didn't exactly have a plan. I never really thought about what to do after I found you." He scratched at his temple introspectively. "Just…putting my brain on the rack, that's all."

Now Sam understood. He frowned at the river, considering what the answer might be himself. What WAS the next step? Without the Project, how could they even attempt to go home? Before the return of Al to his life, he'd accepted the consequences of his rash actions. He'd made his bed, he was going to lay in it. But now… "Well…I guess we just take it one step at a time."

But Al wasn't listening.

There was that voice again! It was unmistakable. Either he was losing his mind, or someone was following them. Come to think of it, he might've discovered their leap objective. Someone who…wanted to steal the Cooper's research? But hmm…someone in 1952 wasn't gonna be calling him by his real name, were they?

" _Admiral Calavicci! Doctor Beckett!"_

"Al? What is it?"

"Uh, it's nothing." More memories maybe? Another twinge. _Jeez, get outta my head, will ya?_

"Al."

Sam was giving him one of those looks again, one of those guilt trips where his mouth disappeared. Al hated those, but damn if they didn't work. "Alright," he relented, "I know this sounds bizarre, but yesterday I swear I saw—"

"Gooshie!" A stunned Sam scrambled to his feet, addressing someone behind Al.

With equal speed, Al was turned around and standing. And sure enough, there was the lab coat guy! So he _was_ real! And…unimpressive.

" _That's_ Gooshie?" Al asked. He recalled the name, but not the face. The man was weaselly, but a little pudgy; his unkempt mustache was just a little too long, and his hair a little too red. It reminded him of his first wife. Wait, was his first wife a redhead? Maybe not that one. Of two things he was certain, however, but with no evidence to back them up: Gooshie smelled worse than he looked, and Al didn't like him.

"Finally!" Gooshie sighed with relief and bent over, his fingers reaching down to his knees. "We've had a _heck_ of a time finding you! It's wonderful to see you, Admiral! And Doctor Beckett! Oh my god!" He gazed at Sam with similar surprise, his eyes bugging out. "We thought we'd lost you!"

"What're you doing here?" gasped Sam, almost at a loss for words, as he circled the unsteadily flickering hologram, "How?! I thought the Project would be shut down by now!"

"They were," Al provided, the empty Project again on his mind, "Or close to, at least, before I leapt."

Gooshie confirmed this with a nod. "Absolutely, a-and that's what saved it, Admiral!"

"Huh?"

"Well, the Committee was none too happy to find out that you'd taken an unauthorized leap, Weitzman in particular. He was furious!" Al didn't remember who Weitzman was, but nonetheless, hearing that he'd made him angry gave him a warm, fuzzy feeling in his chest. Gooshie continued dutifully. "So, they immediately called us back to restart the program and retrieve you…" Then, nervously, "...for prosecution."

"Ha!" The loud, uncontrolled laugh burst forth from Al immediately upon hearing about this warrant.

Sam was too appalled to find the words; his face squished closer together the longer he thought about it. Suddenly heroic sacrifices and searches across time and space were reduced to uptight, bureaucratic nonsense. His life's work had become the tool of a government official with an ax to grind. "Wait a minute, you're telling me the Project was brought back…to be petty?"

"It is a government project, Doctor Beckett," Gooshie reminded him. Did that make Al's actions more serious or the Committee pettier? "But once we saw two people in the Waiting Room, getting you home became part of the equation as well!"

Sam blinked. His leapee was appearing in the Waiting Room again? Had GTFW taken it upon themselves to reverse what he had done? That is…if he'd had any say in it to begin with. He wasn't sure how he felt about this omnipotent intervention.

"It took us some time, but we were able to lock onto the admiral's brainwaves using data from past leaps. That's why we've taken so long to find you." The handlink was retrieved from Gooshie's pocket and he began to rapidly enter in information. The rainbow block blipped and bleeped in response, and he read the screen. "Oh, Ziggy says hi."

"Hi, Ziggy," Sam sighed. He did miss her. "So can you?"

"Can I what?"

"Retrieve us."

"Ummm…not as of yet, no."

Sam deflated just a little bit. Microscopically, he'd gotten his hopes up. Al had seemed prepared for this answer; he knew how quickly the government worked.

Al wiped away a happy tear from his eye; he was still tickled. "Oh, I'm sure Weitzman is happy to hear that. That'll make prosecuting me real easy."

That raised a good question for Sam, though. "Gooshie, if both Project Directors are here, who's in charge back home?"

Both men looked to the holographic programmer. Placing the handlink behind his back and gaining a little more confidence, Gooshie smiled and bounced on the balls of his feet. "Dr. Fuller was put in charge of the operations, Doctor Beckett." But both men were drawing a blank. Neither of them knew who Dr. Fuller was. "Sammy Jo?" he offered, cringing a bit at having dared use someone's first name.

"Ohhh…" both responded in unison, relieved. Evidently, she was an acceptable replacement, and one that made perfect sense. Recalling that Sammy Jo had worked on the retrieval program and was something of a genius herself, Sam grinned proudly. And for some reason he couldn't place…he trusted her completely to run the Project in his absence. Why was that?

"A-And I'm temporarily serving as your Observer," Gooshie added under his breath, almost as an aside, tipping his head low over the handlink, "until we can find a suitable replacement."

A puzzling statement to Sam. "Why aren't _you_ suitable?"

"Me, Doctor Beckett?" Gooshie asked with surprise. He shook his head and giggled nervously. "Oh no, sir, I'm just filling in until someone more qualified comes along. I'm more of a…a behind the scenes person." His confidence had dipped again; he buried himself in key-tapping.

Sam remembered Gooshie's reluctance to leave the comfort of working on the parallel hybrid computer; half the time he was buried in one of Ziggy's panels. He wasn't unfriendly, simply…socially awkward. Although, Sam didn't know as much about him because he was usually just a name Al was shouting; and depending on the day, Al either considered him a friend or hated his guts, so any information Sam received secondhand was a tad dubious. But next to Al, Gooshie was the best—actually, he was the _only_ other Observer he'd had.

Al was not particularly concerned with Gooshie's temporary position at the moment. "This is great!" he exclaimed to Sam, clapping a hand on his shoulder, "This means we have information from the future now! We won't have to wing it!"

"Hey, that's right," Sam realized happily. Thoughts of the convenience store began to surface again, but he buried them, focused on the present.

He had guidance again.

"Do you know what we leaped here for?"

"Well let's see…" The programmer was already plunking away at the handlink, pausing only to scratch at his mustache. Al noticed (a little jealously) that Ziggy didn't protest nearly as much when Gooshie operated her. "It's May 12th, 19—"

"1952," Sam provided.

"That's right. You're in the Llanganates Mountains in Ecuador, and you've leaped into—"

"Robert and Edward Cooper," Al finished.

"Gee, you two seem to know everything already," Gooshie said with wonder, his arms falling to his sides as the handlink blinked.

Sam rolled his hand impatiently. "The leap, Gooshie...?"

"Oh yeah." Plink, blip, beep. The handlink danced colors off of the hologram's face. "According to Ziggy, Edward Cooper, his brother Robert, and their friend Barry Butler started this expedition to catalog undiscovered parts of the Amazon. They arrived here 3 days ago, with the intention of returning to America two weeks later. Only…" He stopped and gulped, looked up at them with raised eyebrows. "They never came back."

"Why?" asked Sam, "What happened to them?"

Gooshie tried the handlink again. Ziggy was vocal as usual, and he shook his head. "I'm afraid there's no data on that, Doctor Beckett. A couple search parties went out, but they didn't have any luck. Their guides suspected they got lost from the campsite and couldn't find their way back." He nervously took a look at the thick trees around them, imagining being trapped in there forever. "Ziggy gives it a 98.7% chance you two are here to get the party out of the jungle safely."

"I'm sorry about what I said before, Sam," Al said, his mouth screwed up in concern, "Your treasure hunt is sounding pretty good right about now."

"This should be easy then," Sam stated plainly, confused at the simplicity, "All we have to do is cancel the expedition and have Gooshie lead us back. Right?" He looked to Gooshie for confirmation, who nodded amiably in agreement.

"That is, if nothing happens to us in the meantime…" Al pointed from under the hand rubbing over his eye.

"But…"

"I don't like 'buts,' Sam…"

Sam frowned. "If we leave now, the lost gold might never be found."

"Lost gold?" Gooshie piped up curiously, "What lost gold? Am I missing something?"

" _Saaaam,_ " groaned Al, tipping his head back, "someone else could come back for it later! You want us to end up stuck in the jungle forever?"

"Someone _doesn't_ come back for it! It was never found!"

"You know what else was never found? Us!"

Ignoring Al, Sam stepped closer to Gooshie. "Gooshie, does Ziggy have some way of scanning the area? For, let's say…gold materials?"

"Errrr—no."

"I coulda told you _that_ , Sam."

"Those artifacts are here," Sam insisted, hand on his hip, "If we leave now, we'll be abandoning one of the most significant historical finds of this century."

"I can see about configuring the handlink to scan for specific materials within a certain range…" Gooshie mused, stroking his chin. "It'd take some time, of course, and we'd need Committee approval."

"We don't _have_ time!" Al shouted as he stamped his foot. Why wasn't anyone listening? Boy, when Sam got an idea in his head he stuck with it.

Sam squinted. "Since when do we need Committee approval for modifications to Ziggy? _I'm_ approving it."

"Heh, since Weitzman reinstated the Project. He's a real stickler for rules."

"Ugh, Weitzman," Al said like he'd tasted something bad, temporarily forgetting his frustration with Sam, "He's worse than Bartlett…" Hey, there was another name he remembered! He was getting pretty good at this.

"I have to say, Admiral, you're a lot less swiss cheesed than I thought you would be," Gooshie noted, scratching at his head, "As I recall, when Doctor Beckett first leaped, he didn't even know his name!"

"Well that's thanks to Sam filling in a lot of the blanks for me," Al said offhandedly, gesturing toward Sam, "Whatever he remembers in his own swiss cheesed brain anyway…"

Gooshie froze. "What was that?"

"What was what?"

"Um, heh, what exactly did Doctor Beckett tell you?"

Al looked to Sam, both confused. "Y'know, things I might've forgotten. The Project, who he was, who _I_ was….I was pretty swiss cheesed last leap, but he helped jog my memory. It's still a bit rusty, but it's gettin' there."

If they'd just fused together and started speaking Latin, Gooshie's look would've made more sense. "You _told_ him?" he asked Sam, incredulous, "B-But we're not supposed to tell a leaper anything he doesn't remember on his own!"

Sam shrugged. "I didn't think that applied to other leapers." Gooshie wasn't convinced; he was starting to sweat as much as they were, and he was in the air conditioned Imaging Chamber. "C'mon, Gooshie, it's a stupid rule anyway; it wouldn't be fair to leave him in the dark."

"If you recall, Doctor Beckett, it was _your_ rule." Unheard by anyone but the programmer, he lifted his head to listen to a silent command. Swallowing nervously, he said, "Er—I have to go. They're calling me back to…discuss this matter."

"You're not serious, are you?" Al's mouth was agape. "I'd probably still be in the 70s if Sam hadn't been there for me! Besides, I broke that rule all the time and nothing happened."

"Like I said, Weitzman's out for blood." Gooshie opened up the Imaging Chamber, casting the dumbstruck men a sympathetic look. "I'm sorry. It's not up to me. I'll be back as soon as I can."

The door shut. Sam and Al looked at each other, stupefied.

"Ready to get going?" They jumped. They'd forgotten about Barry and their guides. Barry was watching them curiously, but must've assumed the animated conversation was something private between the brothers. "We've still got a ways to go."


	2. Chapter 2

" _Weitzman_!" Al complained, kicking a rock ahead of him as they traipsed through the rough terrain. Once again, he and Sam were lagging behind the others, which gave them ample opportunity to commiserate. "Now I remember why I could never stand the guy. _Puh,_ wish he'd stayed forgotten…"

Sam had no love for him either; on his third leap, Weitzman had tried to have him declared _non compos mentis._ "I have a theory…" He licked his lips in thought, remembering something about a Lincoln fixation. "Maybe he wears the stovepipe hat to contain his _big, fat_ head…" He comically pantomimed a giant head around his own with his arms. "Otherwise, all the hot air would cause him to float away."

Al snickered. "Yeah, or maybe it's to compensate for something _smaller_ down below…"

Sam snorted. Frustration ebbing away, everything seemed to click into place now. "It's not like they can do anything anyway," he reasoned, "We're all the way back in 1952."

"Right. What're they gonna do, fire us?"

"Exactly. So we might as well go about the leap as normal and just...enjoy the scenery." He stopped to survey the steep incline underneath them. From this height, they could see the treetops down below, towering above another world. So much of it, untouched and unexplored.

Al soaked it in as well. He wanted to enjoy the moment, but he had to be the reminder of their grim fates. "We can't stay for long, Sam. Otherwise, we'll be taking a permanent vacation here."

It was a lot for Sam to take in. Not so long ago, he believed he'd be leaping alone forever. Then Al arrived, and now the Project. He wasn't sure he believed he deserved his good fortune. After all, telling them to let go only made them hold on that much harder. But he'd needed some sort of guidance. He couldn't blow his second chance by letting Edward, Robert, and Barry down.

"I wonder why they went into the jungle without their guides?"

"Hm?"

"Well why would Edward, Robert, and Barry wander off without Ivan or Santiago?" Sam turned to face his friend. "I mean, that's what they were hired for. So why risk going alone?"

With an animated look of anxiety, Al let his imagination get away from him. "Maybe they were _eaten_ by something…"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Like a dinosaur?"

"Yeah. A Weitz-asaurus Rex!"

Head tipped back with a laughing groan, Sam held his aching stomach. Al always knew how to get a reaction out of him. "C'mon," his laughter subsided, he placed a hand on his shoulder, "I bet Barry is wondering why we keep falling behind."

Barry, Ivan, and Santiago had gotten a little further than they'd realized, but neither of them minded the extra time to talk simply as themselves. The heat, bugs, and rough terrain aside, it was just like old times, simply swapping stories and enjoying each others company. And, of course, Al got more digs in at his favorite Committee member.

"I'm tellin' ya, Sam," he said, raising his fists at an imaginary opponent, "if they do manage to bring us back, I'm gettin' three rounds in the ring with ol' Weitzman. I'm a Golden Gloves champ, he doesn't stand a—"

"Shh, there's Barry." With a gentle nudge to the ribs, Al clammed up about the future. A short distance and within earshot, the back of Barry's head was visible through the trees. Oddly, he was standing still. Sam furrowed his brows as they got closer. "What's the hold up?" The trees were thick and tangled, obscuring their vision, and they had to dig their way through the foliage to join their traveling companion. "Hey Barry, what—?"

They stopped. Four armed men were standing there, with barrels now pointed at all three of them.

"Fancy seeing you two again," Barry joked from the side of his mouth. The guns were raised higher and what little humor was left faded away.

Taking a cue from Barry, Sam and Al raised their hands in surrender.

"What'd I tell ya, Sam?" Al chided him quietly. Sam glared. This was no time for an 'I told you so.'

One of the men, a larger gentleman with a thick mustache, yelled something in Spanish, waving his gun at them dangerously. Each man tensed up the moment they were in the line of fire, like a row of dominoes.

"We don't understand!" Barry pleaded, over-enunciating as if that would help him to interpret his words, "Damn it, where did Ivan and Santiago go?!"

"They want our bags," explained Sam, who spoke Spanish fluently. Edward's sudden linguistic skills earned him a strange look, but there was no room for questions. He swallowed, adding, "Or they'll kill us."

"Are you joking?!" Barry whispered back, although if their opponents didn't speak English it was unnecessary, "These are our supplies! What if we get lost on the way back?"

Cautiously beginning to unstrap his bag, Sam responded edgily, "Would you rather get shot?"

Not taking the unneeded conversation well, the mustached man yelled at them again to hand over their bags, and Sam answered back. " _We'll do what you say. Take it easy."_ The reply wasn't kind.

Al's pack thudded to the ground, but Sam was having trouble with his straps and Barry wasn't making a move. This was going too slow for the man, who ordered them to hurry up. As he approached Sam to try and help him along, Barry saw an opportunity.

And split.

 _Bang! Bang!_

"Barry!"

 _Bang!_ All the shots missed the frightened man as he disappeared into the trees.

Leaving Sam and Al with a very angry group of bandits, weapons aimed point blank at their chests. The guns raised in reaction to Barry fleeing, and Sam had to make a split second decision and hope for the best. Before they could have a chance to fire, a roundhouse knocked one of the guns to the ground.

Guess they had to fight now. While the men were stunned at the surprising defensive move, Al pulled himself together enough to sucker punch one of them, and Sam somehow had just enough time to disarm the other two. With all four men scrambling for their guns, this gave them a small window to go with their best option: run like hell.

"Let's book it, Sam!"

If it was tough walking through the jungle, running through it felt like swimming through a pool of honey. Al was reminded of an obstacle course on one of those Japanese game shows Tina was into. Scrambling contestants stumbling into giant foam blocks and falling on their tushes into a bucket of slime. Yuck! 'Course, as far as he knew, those game shows never tried to kill their contestants. Intentionally, anyway. Though it was at least a little bit easier without a bag of those pesky supplies weighing him down, he supposed. But soon (though later than he would've liked) bullets stopped whizzing past their heads long enough for them to stop and hide.

He wanted nothing more than to gasp in lungfuls of humid air, but he and Sam had to hold themselves back so as not to be overheard. Chancing a glance over, he could see Sam's chest rise and fall heavily, his head turned to listen carefully for their stalkers. Branches broke under the men's feet, closer, closer—they held their breaths—and then began to trail off.

Cautiously, he peered around the trees. It sounded like they were leaving, but, as he learned in the past, never underestimate the enemy. Sure enough, they hadn't cleared away just yet. They were gathering a little bit of distance, but occasionally one or two would turn back to eyeball the area suspiciously.

 _Keep still_ , Al signaled with his hand.

That's when Sam noticed something on the ground where they'd came from, gasping. "Al, the cup," he whispered. The gold glinted ever so slightly on the ground, half hidden by leaves. "It must've fallen out of my pack!"

"Leave it."

But of course, when did Sam ever listen to him? He couldn't believe it, but he was setting his pack on the ground. "I can get it. They're far enough way."

"Forget it, Sam!" Al hissed, "You're gonna get yourself killed!"

"Be right back, Al."

"Sam!" Al's outstretched hand found a fistful of air as Sam bolted toward the cup. With a long-suffering sigh, he darted into the open after him. Sam was making a valiant effort to get himself shot, but Al was gonna be damned if he didn't fight it tooth and nail.

It took moments for Sam to reach the artifact, grabbing it quickly with a satisfied grin. See? He'd told Al there was enough time. But as he spun around to hurry back, he heard the crack of a gun—and found his friend barreling into him as bullets began to fire again. Before he knew it, they were rolling through the mud—and then encountering an unseen incline.

The world spun around him as they tumbled downwards—banging his elbow painfully on a large rock—and he was beginning to feel like he'd been shoved inside a dryer, which was playing hell with his motion sickness. But fortunately, the descent was rather short. Lucky them, being on a mountain and all. He rolled out onto a riverbank, now with mud and leaves sticking to him, but not in too bad of shape considering. His elbow throbbed, but nothing seemed broken. And through it all—he'd managed to hang onto the cup. He smiled again.

Wary that he shouldn't celebrate too soon, he hopped to his feet to see if they were being followed—but the trees had hidden them once again. Following the sounds of a groaning Al sitting up behind him, the furious voices of the bandits faded into nothing.

Exhaling with relief, Sam closed his eyes and clutched the cup to his chest. This had been too close for comfort, but he was glad for not losing something so important. Who knows what those bandits would've done if they'd come across it? Probably melt it down, and it'd be lost forever.

"Thanks, Al," he sighed gratefully, "You really saved us back there." He peered through the trees again, just to be sure. "It sounds like they're gone. Let's hope my photographic memory can retrace our steps back to camp."

"That's gonna be a little difficult, Sam…"

"Why's that?"

"Because I've just been shot."

At those words, time slowed down and dread shot up inside Sam's chest like another mountain. He twisted back around to face his friend, who was propped against a tree and clutching his side. Between his fingers, oozing red.

The cup slipped from Sam's fingers, forgotten.

"AL!" In three bounding steps, he was by Al's side and falling to his knees. "Oh god…" No, not here, not now, not this! They were so far away from help. Somewhere in Al's expression of pain was a look of shock, like he hadn't quite absorbed the fact he'd been shot yet despite him saying it. The stain on his shirt grew bigger.

Fighting off the rising wave of fear, Sam pushed the feeling down and instead tried to focus his clinical eye. After all, this could be less serious than it looked. He swallowed. "Let me look at it."

Al's shaking, red hands moved away without question. Sam opened up his shirt, pulling the sticky material away from the skin, but the dark coloring of the blood made it difficult to see with great detail. He couldn't tell just from looking if any vital organs had been penetrated—from this position, it could go either way. Reaching behind him, he felt his back and found the slick evidence of the exit wound, resulting in a horrible yelp from Al. Sam cringed at the sound.

Well, an exit wound meant less internal bleeding—but, unfortunately, external bleeding was rapidly becoming a pressing issue. Sam urgently reapplied the pressure, cognizant of how much blood was already lost.

It was worse than it looked.

"That bad, huh?" Al gritted through his teeth.

"It's a through and through. You're gonna be fine." Don't panic. Don't panic. Sam licked his lips, his mind racing.

The first aid kit. Al's pack had likely been taken by the bandits, but there was a chance they hadn't found his. He could run up and get it, bring it back here, and patch him up enough to get him to camp.

"Listen…" He shrugged off his jacket, shoving it into Al's hand and jamming it over the wound. Al tried to stifle another cry of pain. "Keep pressure on this," Sam ordered as he took off, "I'll be right back, I promise! I'm just going to get the first aid kit!"

"Sam!" He could hear the fear in Al's voice as he reached the bottom of the incline. Al's eyes begged him not to go. Sam's heart hurt.

"Don't worry," he said reassuringly over his shoulder, "I'm coming back." Al grimaced and said nothing else. He turned and began to climb up.

This was the place. He was sure of it; he remembered because the knots in the bark reminded him of Ursa Minor, in a loose sense. This was the very tree he'd hid behind, before… But there was no pack there. Just the tracks of many footprints. They'd found it.

"Shit!" Gut-wrenched, Sam rested his hands on his knees, just for a moment. Precious time was wasting. He snapped to and raced back toward his friend.

Sam skidded clumsily down the side of the mountain, barely regaining his footing before rushing to Al's side again.

"Where's the-?"

"It's gone. We need to get you back to camp now." Sam grabbed his arm, pulling it around his neck. "We're getting up…"

"Just pull, Sam!"

Sam obliged, followed by an agonized shout. Only barely, Al was able to keep his balance by leaning into him. Sam was strong, but this wasn't going to be an easy hike—hell, it had been difficult to trek when they were both in perfect health. Heaving Al upright, they took their first awkward steps forward.

"Just keep my jacket there 'til we get to camp. Then I can treat the wound." Al began to stumble, but Sam steered him in the right direction. "Just try and keep up, huh?" he joked halfheartedly.

If Al chuckled, it became a wheeze. "Hey, kid…"

"Yeah?"

"Grab that thing if I'm gonna take a bullet for it, will ya?" He jerked his head toward the cup, which remained where it had fallen and Sam was about to lead them past. Sam's cheeks flushed red, pursing his lips and silently picking it up.

One, two, three, four…Sam counted the steps as they walked. It was a failing exercise to keep his mind distracted, because if he thought too much about their current situation, the crushing, incomprehensible fear of failure began to consume him. Guilt twisted through his gut just like the bullet had through Al's. This should never have happened. A convenience store floor flashed to mind, the body slipping through his fingers as blue light overwhelmed him. No—don't think about that either. Think of something else.

Focus on the path back. Thick plants and hidden rocks tugged at their feet, pulling their already slow pace to what felt like a crawl, and the now seemingly weightier cup was clunky to carry while also supporting Al. His elbow ached at the pull of holding his friend steady, and that only became worse the more blood he lost. The sounds of suffering coming from Al began to die down; Sam had to keep him talking and awake.

"We're almost there, Al."

"You said that…" Al made a face. "…half an hour ago…"

"Well…I'm taking the scenic route."

"'mind me…not to go...on any vacations w'you…"

He saw the jacket start to slip in Al's hand, felt his head tip. Tightening his hold on him, he tucked the cup under his arm, put his hand over Al's, and firmly steadied his grip. With a slight jerk, his friend lifted his head and blinked.

"Hey, what'd I tell you? Keep that there."

Al squeezed his eyes shut and nodded. "Yeah yeah…"

Sam could tell he was trying, really trying, with all his might, to stay conscious, but it was becoming an increasingly difficult task. He pulled him up a little. "So talk to me, Al."

"Hmmm…"

"C'mon, don't tell me my company is that boring," he joked, thinking back to the Project for something of interest. Ah! If he knew one thing that would keep Al's attention, it was women. "Tell me…tell me about Tina," he suggested amiably, like they were simply having a normal conversation.

"What about her…?" His weight leaned into him more. Sam stumbled to steady them.

"Tell me what she's like."

Al thought on it, pulling his heavy eyelids up, his glistening brow crinkling reminiscently. "She's, uh…she's got great…bazongos…" At the pleasant memory, the corners of his mouth twitched up. "But she's more than…more than a pair of mammaroonies, Ssssam…she's—she's feisty, and smart, _so_ smart…much smarter than I am…"

Sam chuckled. "I bet she'd love to hear you say that."

But Al shook his lowered head sadly. "Doesn't…love me…"

At this, Sam nearly stopped. Al became heavier and more difficult to hold. He wasn't sure what to do with this information, but asking for an elaboration would not be feasible or appropriate. Al loved Tina.

The pause was barely a pause, simply a slower, rolling step, before falling back into their disconnected rhythm.

"Hey Sam…"

"Yeah?"

"'m gonna pass out…"

"Oh no you're not," Sam commanded. Al's feet scraped across the ground. "Hey, you need to stay awake, okay? I need your help to get back."

"Sorry, kid…"

Unable to fight it any longer, he slumped against him and began to slowly sink under Sam's failing grip. "Al, no! Al!" But it was no use. Sam tried to keep them steady, but Al's weight dragged both of them to the ground. He rolled Al onto his back, frantically grabbed his dropped jacket and placed it over the wound again, then insistently patted him on the cheeks. "Al, wake up! I need you!"

Al was out cold. A whimper of desperation escaped Sam's throat as he shut his eyes.

He wasn't going to lose him.

That's all the motivation he needed to pull himself together. He said he was going to get him back to camp, and that's what he was going to do. If he couldn't walk, he'd carry him.

Where was that damn cup? Locating it a couple feet away, he snatched it up and placed it in Al's lap. Sliding his hands underneath his friend's legs and back, he took a deep breath and struggled to his feet, with Al in his arms like a child. He was heavier than Sam's aching body could probably handle, but sheer determination allowed him to power forward. If he had to, he'd carry him all the way to the nearest city.

Perspiration mixed with the rainfall and left Sam damp and dripping, his shoes suctioning to the mud. Having no free hand, he shook the sweat and rain away and blinked it out of his eyes best he could. He had to keep moving; there was no time for pause. Where was camp already? Staggering across the rainforest with Al in his arms and no sight of the tents, he was beginning to question his photographic memory.

That's when he heard voices. It was their guides! With a sudden renewed energy, he began to rapidly gain more ground. His memory was right! Camp was just ahead.

But more voices joined them, ones he also recognized, and he came to a panicked halt.

Reacting quickly, he ducked behind the trees before they could be seen. It didn't appear he'd given them away. Carefully setting Al to the ground, he quietly stood up and peeked around the trees.

Ivan and Santiago were speaking with the bandits—who were collecting things from the camp—like old buddies. Sam couldn't make out everything they were saying from that distance, but what he caught seemed to imply a partnership. These weren't the faces of men that feared for their lives, or worried about the fate of the people they'd promised to guide.

Seething anger burned through Sam's being as he began to piece together what happened. This was planned all along. Had they taken other parties into the rainforest, robbed them, and left them to die? Now he knew why the people they'd leaped into disappeared in the original history.

His fists were shaking.

A frightened whisper. "Thank god you're alright!"

Fists in the air, Sam whipped toward the speaker on the defensive, a terrified Barry cowering back.

"It's me! Barry!"

Sam slowly lowered his fists. His angry glower didn't dissipate.

Barry frowned remorsefully. "I'm sorry I left, Eddie…I just got scared. But I came back here hoping you were thinking the same as me. We've been friends for too long for me to leave you behind like that." He cast a wary glance toward camp, lowering his voice further just to be safe. "We should get as far away from these men as possible." That's when he noticed the blood covering Sam's front, his eyes widening. "Eddie, are you hurt? Where's Bobby?"

"Bobby" softly groaned from below.

Barry caught sight of Al and blanched. "Oh lord…Bobby!" He raced over with concern, where Al was slowly regaining consciousness.

Matters were too pressing to stay angry, and Sam realized with a sliver of hope that Barry still had his supplies. "He was shot. Help me get him somewhere safe." Barry nodded frantically and leaned down to help pick him up.

The rainforest dipped in and out for Al—he'd blink and suddenly he was in another place. Awesome. If he had his druthers, he'd keep the lights out for the time being, because when he was awake it felt as if a big, stupid animal were gnawing at him from the inside out. Like he'd swallowed a firework that was slowly burning its way through. Like his guts were on strike and mutinying against the rest of his parts with pitchforks and torches. It wasn't a particularly pleasant feeling, overall.

Gee, it dawned on him that he'd never been shot before, at least not without a bulletproof vest. Even after…actually, _had_ he been shot? In the arm, stopping a robbery at a mall? Or was that simply a dream he'd had once? It felt familiar enough. But then again, everything seemed surreal at the moment. At any rate, he couldn't remember ever feeling this miserable or beaten down.

Stuck out in the rainforest, god knows how far away from a hospital, in 1952. This was a fine time to take a bullet.

He thought he heard Sam, but it couldn't just be him because a second person had a hold of his other side. Who, he wasn't sure, voices and faces were fuzzy and distorted…

Hey, why was this place so cold now? A chill frosted its way down to his bones, sending uncontrollable tremors through his body. He'd traveled from the Jurassic period to the ice age, and he hadn't even needed to leap.

He didn't want to admit it, but things weren't looking so good for Al Calavicci. On the bright side, however, if you're gonna get filled with lead, you could have worse company than a doctor.

"He's going into shock."

Careful but not as gentle as they could be, Barry and Sam placed the shivering Al on the ground inside the cave they'd taken shelter in. Before Barry could finish opening his mouth, Sam was forcefully removing the pack from his back.

"Keep pressure on the wound!" Sam sternly ordered the other man, who stood gaping dumbly as he tore open the bag, "Don't let him lose any more blood!"

Jerking back to life, Barry knelt down and held Sam's increasingly red jacket in place. As Sam found the first aid kit and began to expertly take out the supplies, he stared incredulously. "You know how to treat a bullet wound?"

"I learned it in vet school. Okay, move." With no room for politeness, Sam shoved Barry away and began to dress the wound. Al tensed up under his deft hands, gritting his teeth and throwing his head back, and a guilt-ridden Sam wished he could make things any easier. Brow creased in intense concentration, he said to Barry, "I want you to take off your jacket and get the blankets and clothes out of your bag, anything to keep him warm."

"But it must be over 100 degrees—"

"Don't argue and just do it!"

Barry did as he was told, gathering what he could and placing them nearby. Once Sam was satisfied he'd bandaged Al well enough, he began to wrap whatever he could around him snugly.

"We've got to stabilize his body temperature."

Nodding in acknowledgment, Barry began to help. Al was covered and out again. For all the work leading up to this point, Sam knew this wasn't much at all, but it would certainly buy them some time, and that right now was the smallest of their low commodities.

At last, Sam paused long enough to catch his breath and wipe the sweat from his brow. He leaned back onto his heels and looked at Barry, who seemed equally exhausted. "Where's the nearest hospital?"

"You know where we are," Barry replied with some confusion.

Sam's eyes closed, a brief moment of impatient annoyance. "Just—humor me, will you?"

Still puzzled, Barry did answer, though it wasn't any answer Sam wanted to hear. "The nearest city is a three day hike away, at least. But that's when we had guides."

Again, Sam's eyes closed and he hung his head despondently. What was he going to do? And where the hell was Gooshie? They never needed the Project more than they needed them now.

"He's going to die…isn't he?"

His gaze flickered up to Barry, now the complete opposite of his first impression. He was no confident, brave adventurer, ripped the pages of Sam's childhood books—but a petrified, shrinking man with the bravery of a lampshade. Barry stared at Al with hollow eyes, a grim window into his future—when he said 'he,' he meant 'we.'

And Sam knew the answer now. Fate was what he was going to make it, and he wouldn't sit here and accept defeat. He'd made this mess, so he was going to clean it up.

"No," he answered firmly, getting to his feet, "No one's going to die out here." Barry followed his lead, confused again, but looking for direction. "I'm gonna lead us out. But first—" He exited the cave, followed by waddling duckling Barry, and began to scan the tree branches. "We can't just drag A—Bobby around, we're gonna have to build something to carry him on. We have enough light left to do that, and we'll leave in the morning."

"But we should leave before the bandits come back!" Barry squeaked.

Sam shook his head, weighing a large branch in his hands. "They already raided our camp; I think they got what they wanted. Besides, it'll be dark soon. Even if they were trying to find us, if we can't see them, they can't see us."

"Exactly, which is why we don't have time for this!"

"It'll be easier and safer to move him this way."

"It'll also be _slower_ for _us_."

Sam didn't like the implication in his tone _at all_. After a moment of gnashing his teeth, he slowly turned to face him. Cocking his head, he asked testily, "So what are you suggesting?"

When faced with confrontation, Barry at least had the decency to feel ashamed. He ducked his head timidly, unable to meet Sam's judgment any longer. "Nothing," he mumbled, "you're right, of course."

That was much better. "Good. Then help me look for branches to make into a stretcher."


	3. Chapter 3

Working in the waning daylight, Sam weaved vines through the branches, creating what he hoped would be a sturdy platform to carry Al. Barry had decided to look for something edible outside (though Sam suspected he was uncomfortable around all the blood), so for now, he worked alone in the near dark. Of course, it would be easier if he left the cave, but then…he couldn't bring himself to leave his friend's side for long. There wasn't much he could do right now, but he didn't want to leave him alone for a minute. Warming him up had helped stabilize him, but Al needed fluids, and without anything that could be fashioned into an IV and with him still passed out, there was no way to administer them. He'd have to wait for him to wake up, and waiting was the bane of his existence right now.

He hated having to wait overnight when time was so precious, but he knew that would be the safer plan overall. Traveling through the jungle in the daytime was difficult, but at night it was downright hazardous. Plus, well…they didn't have Gooshie back yet, and without him they were walking blind.

How had he done this without the Project for as long as he had? Maybe he wasn't as responsible for helping people as he thought he had been…or perhaps he'd lost whatever spark made him a hero in the first place.

He couldn't leave Al's side, but he couldn't look at him long either. This was all his fault. Everything was.

Al shouldn't've been here.

A familiar noise. Light briefly flooding the cave, then disappearing. Sam sighed with relief.

"Gooshie, thank god!"

"Doctor Beckett? Is that you?" Gooshie squinted in the light, trying to find him. Pressing a few buttons on the handlink, it lit up like a flashlight and he raised it in his direction. "Ah! There you are! And—" Spotting Al, his skin turned white as a sheet, his legs wobbling slightly. Blood made him faint, so he averted his eyes. "Is—Is Admiral Calavicci alright?"

"No, he's not." Now standing, Sam subtly led Gooshie away. If this leap was going to succeed, he needed at least one of his companions awake. "We were robbed. He—he got shot saving me." He pursed his lips; saying it out loud made him feel even worse.

"What?" Gooshie breathed with alarm, doing a double take, "Is—Is it serious?"

Sam nodded gravely. "It's serious."

"I don't know what to say…" Gooshie breathed remorsefully, squeezing the handlink with worried hands, "I'm sorry we couldn't warn you!"

"It's not your fault. You couldn't have known if there was no record, right?" Sam pulled at his stubble and took a deep breath. It likely hadn't happened in the original history either, until he came along and changed things, he thought shamefully. "Look, forget about the modifications I asked for before; we need you to use Ziggy to lead us out now. We've got days ahead of us to the next city, and if we get lost, Al's not…" He didn't finish that thought.

The programmer looked like a puppy that had just been scolded. He clasped the handlink with both hands, nervously admitting, "I—I really, really want to help you, but—i-it's just not possible."

"What do you mean? Ziggy can lock on to most locations; she should be able to figure out what direction we need to go."

"I know that, Doctor Beckett, but—" The handlink interrupted with a screech, and Gooshie sighed. "Ziggy, will you let me tell it?" Another, smaller protest, which died down. "Thank you." Back to Sam. "Ziggy is capable of that, sure, but we actually _can't._ The Committee has our hands tied."

"Why?"

"Because you broke the rules!"

" _What?_ "

"You told Admiral Calavicci about the future, and you can't tell a leaper what they don't already know. Weitzman's insistent on enforcing this rule."

"That's ridiculous! How could I have known we'd even see the Project again at that time? Besides, I'm not an Observer, that rule doesn't apply to me!"

"Wellll…" Gooshie waffled his hand.

"Gooshie!"

"The Committee isn't so sure," Gooshie explained, "and there's where the dilemma lies. They're currently conducting an investigation to determine if an infraction has been made and what punishment should be given out. In the meantime, they're limiting our access to most of Ziggy's features…and that includes mapping and relocation." His arms flopped to his side, his face guilty. "I'm really, really sorry, Doctor Beckett."

Sam was livid now. He couldn't believe Weitzman would let his grudge against Al endanger their lives! And for what? "What could they _possibly_ do to punish us out here? Kick us off the Project? All this does is waste time! Tell Weitzman that we've got a critically injured man out here, and it'll be pretty hard to prosecute him if he dies!"

Gooshie gulped; he was just as scared as Sam was. "You're right. I-I'll try to get this fixed as soon as possible. Just—hang on!" With a frightened nod, he opened the Imaging Chamber again, backed up, and closed the door.

"Nnngghh…is that sardine-breath I heard just now…?"

There weren't many things that could lift Sam's spirits right now, but the sound of Al's voice was one of them. He hurried over, having wasted enough time already. "Yeah, Gooshie was here. Drink this." He held out a canteen, tipping it toward Al's mouth for him. On the first swallow, Al choked and coughed.

"Ugh! The hell is that…?" he moaned.

"I've added salt and sugar to it. I know it's weird, but it'll help you re-hydrate. Drink."

Again, Sam placed the canteen to his friend's lips, but as if to prove he wasn't injured, Al took the canteen into his own uneven hands. Even now, he remained as stubborn as ever. Sam decided to let him have this one.

Breathing deeply, Sam sat down and frustratedly ran his hand through his hair. "The Committee is 'investigating' my misconduct," he said, the venom palpable in his voice, "The Project can't use most of Ziggy's features until they've finished, which means…they can't get us out of here." He waited for Al's response. His friend continued to drink, showing nothing of his reaction to this news.

Al stopped when he drank a bit too fast and choked again, closing his eyes at the awful movement. Once he'd recovered, he asked, "Our guides…?"

"They were working with the robbers, some kind of racket I think." Sam paused, pursed his lips. "…and it'll take three days to get to the nearest city…if we're going in the right direction."

Al's eyes were closed again, but Sam could tell he was still awake.

He wished he would say something. Anything. Al was too quiet, too distant, too…unreadable. Was he furious? Frightened? Hurt? Sam wanted nothing more than to know how Al saw him now. Did he blame him as much as he blamed himself? He swallowed, his guilt resurfacing.

"This is my fault, Al," he said with self-reproach, focused on the cave moss ahead of him, "If I hadn't gone after the cup, you wouldn't have gotten shot. I should have listened to you."

"Maybe next time you'll talk to me first…"

Sam's head jerked up. Al's eyes remained closed, oddly serene for the subtle judgment edged into his tone. The soft words were a violent slap across the face. In the back of his mind, Sam had wanted Al to take pity on him, assure him he wasn't _really_ at fault. _No, Sam, you did what you thought you had to do. Anyone could've made the same mistake, kid._ Something like that. Al would always excuse him in the end; there was no mistake Sam had made that Al couldn't forgive with a smile and a joke.

But now, Al didn't have any jokes, no infectious spark. Just bitterness.

He shouldn't be here.

Cheeks burning with remorse, Sam gritted his teeth, hit his fist against his thigh. "Damn it, Al! I never wanted you to follow me! This was my dream, not yours! And now look what I've done to you!" Picking up a small pebble, he furiously tossed it into the pitch black.

"You ever stop to think that for once…it wasn't just about you?"

"What?" Sam furrowed his brows, twisted his head to look at his friend.

One glaring eye was open. The other eye followed momentarily. "You're always makin' decisions for us, Sam. You didn't talk to me now…and you didn't talk to me when you leaped in the first place."

Caught off guard, Sam frowned. "That was different. I…I was doing what I thought was best for the Project."

"No, as usual you were doing what Sam Beckett wanted to do!" Al's voice cracked miserably. The force of his statement caused him to cough, further straining him in what was already a taxing conversation. Sam opened his mouth to protest, but Al barged on. "Remember what the last thing you said to me was...?"

"What?"

"…'See you tomorrow.' Those were your last words to me."

"I don't see what this has to do—"

"Did you know you were gonna leap then? And don't pull the swiss cheese card."

Al's stare burrowed straight into Sam's soul, saw past any deflections he might make. Sam couldn't lie to him. He _did_ remember.

"Did you know?" Al repeated.

That night played back in Sam's mind, how defeated he'd been because of the looming funding cut, how certain he'd been that he could _prove_ that the machine worked. How the grandiose plan had played out in his mind, visions of applause and pats on the back. _You did it, Sam_ , Al would say with a toast. He'd opened up the last unexplored frontier, changed the world!

He didn't tell Al what he was about to do—he would've stopped him anyway. Besides, he knew he'd be thankful in the end that their project had finally come to fruition. How smart and how brave Sam was to take the initiative.

"…yes. I knew."

"You left me behind, Sam," Al said, voice thick and sore, "Then you tried to do it again. All my life's been a string of people leaving me behind...and I thought you'd be the one person who wouldn't." Even looking away, Sam could feel Al's penetrating gaze, the reverberating singe of his betrayal. When he met Al's eyes again, however, he wasn't prepared for the mixture of hurt and fire he saw behind them. "This time I'm saying no... I didn't come for you. I came for me." He closed his eyes again, folding his hands over his chest. "See you tomorrow, Sam… And when I say it, I mean it."

Al had made it clear the conversation was over, and Sam was left licking the wounds of freshly opened fault. Al had been right, of course. As he would've been all of those times Sam chose to cut him out when it was convenient.

Sam had always told himself his decisions were fueled by nothing but good intentions, but there was a well known saying about that. What a false martyr he'd made himself.

Space was needed between them, at least for now. A few feet outside the cave was as far as Sam's tether went, and he let the sounds of the bugs and birds wash over him.

A hard object in his pocket. He pulled it out—a compass, forgotten. He huffed. Lot of good it would do him. At least he'd know _what_ direction they were going in—whether right or wrong. With no map and having leaped into the middle of the jungle already, he had nowhere to guide them to. Maybe the real Edward could've retraced their steps back.

A rustling close by. Barry edged out of the trees, barely visible now.

"I…I found a bit to eat," Barry offered with an apologetic shrug, "Not much. We'll have to make do with whatever's in my bag."

Sam nodded. He hadn't expected a lot.

Barry rubbed his hands together, licked his lips, shifted his eyes. Sized up Sam's mood. Hesitantly, sidled up beside him. "Eddie…we've been friends for ten years. I don't want to see anything happen to you."

He sounded sincere. Sam spared him a glance. "I'm okay. Bobby's the one you should worry about."

A pause. "I love him like my own brother." There was a genuine sadness to Barry's response, despite his cowardly actions before. Sam realized he must have known Robert as long as he knew Edward. Looking at him imploringly, Barry pleaded with Sam, "Please. Let's go now."

Sam sighed, tired of having to explain this. "We can't. It's dangerous in the dark like this, and Robert can't afford the time we'd waste if we lost each other or got injured ourselves." He rubbed his sore elbow subconsciously.

"Perhaps… _we_ can't afford the time we'd lose by taking him with us."

Again, heat rose up in Sam's face. It was the perfectly wrong thing to say at the worst possible time, as he was already shackled with guilt and ready for a release. If looks could kill, Barry would be a dead man. "We're not leaving him behind," Sam seethed.

"We have to be realistic," sighed Barry, trying to be sympathetic, "We only have so much food, and I'm not sure it's enough even for the two of us! Look, I love Bobby, but…we both know he's not going to make the trip anyway, so why kill three people?"

"He's _not_ going to die!" Sam spat out, jabbing his finger straight under a startled Barry's chin, "We're taking him with us, and that's the end of the discussion! You don't just throw someone's life away!"

"But—"

"I said we're done!"

If there was someone brave enough to challenge Sam at this moment, it wasn't Barry Butler. Ducking away, but still begrudging, Barry mumbled, "I'm going to gather firewood..." And he was gone again.

Sam fumed alone.

 _Store tile. The smell of old food on rolling warmers, sat there since morning. The shocked silence from the onlooking crowd. Sam held Fred in his arms, eyes closed tight, playing in his mind every conceivable scenario where he'd acted differently and saved his life._

 _A kind voice, a comforting squeeze on his shoulder. "There's nothing you could have done…"_

 _Wasn't there?_

 _"Hey, Sam—hello? You in there, kid?" A stubby hand waving in front of Sam's face startled him back to reality. Al was in front of him, dressed in a full tuxedo and looking amused._

 _"Huh? Yeah, just…thinking." Sam crossed his arms and leaned on his desk. Yes, he'd been thinking. And an impulsive, crazy plan was permeating his thoughts._

 _"Don't be so down in the dumps, Sam," Al told him, searching for the mirror. It was hidden, like most things in Sam's office, in a clutter of stuff. He began to do up his bow tie. "I keep tellin' ya, we're not out of the game yet. This is just a minor setback." He waved his hand nonchalantly. "After this charity dinner tonight, we'll have these bigwigs eating out of our hands."_

 _Sam was scrutinizing the tip of his pencil. "And what if we don't?"_

 _"Are you doubting the Calavicci charm?"_

 _"I'm serious. What happens if we lose funding?" Sam looked up. "Everything we've worked for will have been for nothing."_

 _A pause. Al smirked and sauntered closer; it was all very simple. "Sam," he said, placing his hand on his shoulder, "No matter what happens, it'll never be for nothing. Don't sell yourself short. BUT," he clapped his shoulder, started toward the door, "we won't lose funding, so I wouldn't worry about it. Just leave it up to me."_

 _Sam smiled, to satisfy Al and not raise suspicion, and leaned back in his chair. Of course he knew they wouldn't lose funding…because tonight they'd find out he was right. "Okay."_

 _"Okay." Al stopped in the doorway. "You sure you won't come with me? It'll be good for you to get outta here every once in a while."_

 _"No, I've got work to do, but you have fun."_

 _"Have you seen Bartlett's wife?" Al asked, lowering his eyelids, "With any luck, we'll be having all sorts of fun…"_

 _"I don't want to know," Sam said, eyes closed with some embarrassment._

 _"It wouldn't hurt for you to have some fun every now and then too...when you get done working." Al inclined his head and gave Sam a pointed look._

 _Sam smiled gratefully, genuine this time. Al was a good friend. "See you tomorrow, Al."_

 _"See you tomorrow, Sam."_

 _The door shut._

 _"I need to talk to Donna. Alone."_

 _"Donna? You mean, uh, you remember...?"_

 _"Yeah, I remember her. Can you get her into the Imaging Chamber?"_

 _"Gee, Sam, I dunno...That's, that's gonna drain a ton of power."_

 _"I know, Al. But it's important. Please."_

 _After taking a moment and somewhat confused at Sam's somber attitude, Al nodded. "Oh hell. I never could resist that puppy dog look. I can pull some strings. Just give me a bit."_

 _"Thank you."_

 _Al grinned tightly and took out the handlink, pressing in the sequence to open the Imaging Chamber. He stepped back into the light and pointed his cigar at him. "Don't say I never did anything for you."_

 _Sam grinned shakily. "...Never."_

 _The door shut, and again Sam knew he was leaving. It was the last time he thought he'd ever see him. Had ever planned to see him. It was better this way._

Sam stopped stoking the fire and put his head in his hands. Al had fallen for it every time. He wasn't a person to give out trust very easily, but for Sam, oh boy, he gave it out in spades. Anything for his best friend. It was a heavy sword to wield, and Sam had plunged it straight into his back. It was high time he pulled it out and tried to mend the wound.

Sam didn't want anyone to get hurt, but he couldn't deny the wrongs in his rights. He owed Al so much more than he gave back.

He got up to check on him. Getting him to drink had helped some, but he'd noticed him looking progressively paler as the night wore on. In such an unsterile environment and with an injury like he had, a fever was inevitable, but Sam had held out hope that he would have more time, or luck, or both. Sam checked his forehead. Sure enough, his temperature was skyrocketing.

The contact was enough to stir him awake. Al's hazy focus drifted toward him. "Thought I told you I'd see you tomorrow…"

"Sorry, looks like you're stuck with me," Sam told him, "How're you feeling?"

"Like shit. Thanks for askin'…"

Sam nodded, skewed his mouth, rubbing his hands over his thighs. Clearly Al was still sore in more ways than one. "You were right, you know. What you said about me." Al quirked an eyebrow. Sam licked his lips. "What I did…was wrong. I should've told you what I was doing before making those decisions, because we were supposed to be partners. And more importantly…I was supposed to be your friend." Al was staring intensely at the ceiling, but Sam could read the impact of his words in his pained expression. He pursed his lips. "Can you ever forgive me?"

Al squinted, mulled it over, and kept his eyes on the ceiling. At last, he said shortly, "I'll think about it."

This was a deeper wound than the bullet had given him. It was unfair to expect immediate forgiveness, but at the same time…Sam couldn't recall receiving this kind of cold shoulder from his friend. He waited a moment, accepted his sentence, and went to stoke the fire again. It was going to take more than words to heal this injury.

They really were lost.

"Calavicci."

"Mmmm…"

"Wake up."

"Mmmm...?"

"Up and at 'em, Admiral!"

Al gasped awake, setting another fire in his belly that threatened to sucker punch him right out again. "Ohhh…! Jeez, what is it…?" he moaned. Who was talking to him?

It was hard to make out in the dark. The firelight flickered and danced, casting light patterns on a crisp white suit. The figure stepped forward.

Oh, of course, it was another Al. A better-looking Al, he might add, spruced up in his dress whites and with a distinct lack of a bullet wound messing up his immaculate uniform. Which was good, because bloodstains are impossible to get out. Straightening his hat, he passed through the fire like a ghost, unaffected by the flames licking at his legs. Al shuddered. Maybe now wasn't the best time to associate himself with a ghost.

"You just gonna lie around while Sam does all the work?" the other Al chided him, hands folded behind his back stiffly. He held himself like a proper Navy man.

"Let him deal with it; he brought it on himself…" Lordy, was it hot in here. Why did Sam put him so close to the fire?

"You should know better than anyone, soldier. When you're on the battlefield you have to make a call, and it doesn't always end up being a good one. It's how you recover that counts."

"It wouldn't'a happened if he'd listened to me…"

"Sure, and you wouldn't have that scar behind your ear if you hadn't told Ira Littleton she'd look even better _out_ of that cheerleading outfit, but shoulda, woulda, coulda."

Didn't he know he had a headache? They were the same person, after all, and Al was too tired to debate himself. Maybe if he stopped talking to him he'd go away. Yeah, just try to sleep again. That sounded great. Plus if he was unconscious, he wouldn't feel like a boat that had sprung a leak.

"Fine, ignore me, see if I care." He sniffed, wiped his nose casually. "But I gotta ask…is it really Sam you're mad at, or yourself?"

One annoyed eye pried open, glaring defensively at his doppelganger. He wasn't going to dignify that with an answer.

"After all, you made the same mistake he did by recklessly stepping into the accelerator to follow him," his other self pointed out, "You didn't know if you'd find him or end up swiss cheesed and stranded in, I dunno, World War II. You just jumped in without thinking, and now the gravity of the situation is finally hitting you. You ain't a hologram anymore."

The voice sent tremors down Al's spine, descending closer as the other Al stooped beside him. _Don't listen. He's not real anyway._

The other Al was humorless, to the point, briefing a lower ranking officer. "You're never gonna see your own face in the mirror again, because you're never gonna leap home. Not that leaping anywhere will be an issue, because you're probably not gonna make it out of this jungle. I mean, let's face it, you're not cut out for time travel. The second leap out, you got yourself shot!"

Al squeezed his eyes shut. _Don't listen don't listen don't listen._

He didn't belong in the field when it came to leaping. He wasn't as strong or smart or clever as Sam, not enough to survive seven years of this—oh, who was he kidding? At this point, he'd be lucky to survive this one leap

"Or maybe," the voice was inches away now, right next to his ear, "you're terrified of facing the real truth of the matter: No one's waiting for you back home anyway. Sam is all you have. And he's never gonna care about you as much as you care about him."

A hand clasped over his nose and mouth, cutting off his air, and a sudden jolt of panic tore through him. His heavy limbs tried to grab at the attacker, but he was too weak; the hand was an immovable monument. His chest was tight; his lungs burned and begged for oxygen. The doppelganger, in the process of snuffing out his life, simply watched with a stern, disappointed expression. It was his duty to put himself out of his misery.

 _God, please don't let me die! I'm not ready yet!_

All of a sudden his attacker was ripped away, allowing him to gasp in sharp, painful bursts of air. The sounds of two men struggling faded out of the cave.

Dragging Barry by the front of his shirt, Sam shoved him furiously away. "What the hell do you think you were doing?!"

"I told you he'd only slow us down!" Barry shouted, enraged. Oh, he was suddenly very brave. "I was trying to save our lives!"

"By killing him?!"

"I was putting him out of his misery!"

"You son of a bitch!"

Sam's fist flew into Barry's jaw, sending him reeling back into the mud. Barry scrambled to his feet in a rage, returning the punch and managing to get Sam in a headlock, both of them livid and out for blood. The other man managed to get a potshot to Sam's kidneys before Sam elbowed his way out, slamming his palm into his nose and swiftly breaking it.

Barry staggered back in agony, blood pouring down his chin, and watched Sam with sudden renewed fear. Sam's black eyes stared back at him pitilessly, his body tense, barely restrained from continuing the pummeling. Very few men had drawn such wrath from him.

"Get out of here," Sam hissed venomously, unsettlingly still save for his rising and falling back, "If I see your face again…I'll break your neck."

All of Barry's recent bravery was gone now, replaced with absolute terror and no intention of testing Sam's threat. He glanced toward the cave—where all the supplies were—and then back at the jungle, dark and uncertain.

Sam wasn't going to take anything back, and he wasn't going to let him anywhere near that cave again.

With a look of loathing, Barry turned away.

"Barry." He turned back. "Catch."

Sam tossed him something—the compass. Maybe it would be more use to him. Sam couldn't let him go without at least giving him a fighting chance—even if he didn't deem Al worthy of that luxury.

Barry, with one last look, pocketed the compass and disappeared into the jungle.

Still catching his breath and trying to calm down, Sam reentered the cave to make sure Al was alright. His friend was still breathing anyway, but clearly unsettled from the experience. "You okay?"

Al furrowed his brows, unsure, and Sam tensed up. "Yeah, except…I got a stomachache…"

A beat, and it hit him. Sam released a deep breath, rolling his eyes at the joke. Al still had a sense of humor after all. Satisfied Al was not quite at death's door, Sam allowed himself a small snort, wiping away the nosebleed he just realized he had.

"So who won?"

Sam looked up at Al, who was watching him from under hooded eyes. "I did," he answered him obviously.


	4. Chapter 4

In the daylight, the rainforest seemed even more vast and unknown. So while Sam had an estimation, some supplies, and a sliver of hope, what he didn't have was a direction. His photographic memory only took him as far as the start of the leap, and even then, it was iffy in such a repetitious environment. And, although leaping had allowed him to hone his skill of not dying very well, he was not a survivalist or all that familiar with the rainforest.

He knew one thing though. Follow the water, and that'll lead to civilization. He led them to a river, and at least one of these two directions had to be correct.

Al looked even worse in the daylight. When Sam had woken up, he'd had a moment of panic and had to rush over to make sure he was still there. But if there was one thing certain about Al Calavicci, it's that he was a fighter. He might've been in a lot of pain, more than he wanted to let on, but he was still hanging on and throwing punches. Not that Sam had expected any less from him.

Al was doing his part by staying alive. Sam, in turn, needed to finish the leap.

Sam himself wasn't doing as well as he could be. The journey was hot and exhausting, and he was running on empty with barely anything to eat, and Al was becoming an increasingly heavy anchor. But outside of the back-breaking physical demands, the mental strain was draining him.

Al might die hating him, and there's nothing more he could do about it. It was barely all he could do to keep him here. And the jungle, teeming with life around them, was incredibly lonely.

The bandages he'd used were pink and, in an ideal situation, he'd like to change them, but there wasn't enough gauze leftover to wrap him properly. But, well, nothing in this situation was ideal. His stretcher was surprisingly sturdy, although he wished he could stabilize it so Al wouldn't move around as much over the uneven ground. But thankfully, he supposed, Al was out of it most of the time. When he was awake, Sam made sure to get him to drink, and thankfully, if there was one thing that wasn't in short supply in the rainforest, it was water. When it wasn't pouring, he'd collect rainwater from the leaves. He made Al eat too, but less successfully—he couldn't hold much down. Which meant what little food was in Barry's bag would last longer, but it was still uncertain if it was enough, and hell if Sam knew much about safe things to eat in the jungle.

Maybe Al would know. He must've learned something in Vietnam. Sam wished he could ask him.

But then—there was a certain plant Sam _did_ recognize, and, just minutely, he realized they'd caught a small break.

"I don't wanna drink anything right now…" Al turned his head away crankily.

"This'll help, trust me." Sam held out the hot drink to Al—poured into the golden Inca cup. Al raised an inquisitive eyebrow, and Sam shrugged sheepishly. "Might as well get some use out of this damn thing."

Reluctantly agreeing to drink his concoction, Al inclined his head slightly. It was more than feeling sick, he was embarrassed that Sam had to help him now. Once he took a sip, he groaned and turned his head away. "Ugh, _Sam_ , why d'ya keep givin' me this kinda stuff…?"

"Drink it," Sam said firmly, placing the cup to his lips again, "It's tea I made from cat's claw; it'll help you fight infection. It's also a natural painkiller, so it should help with that a little bit."

From the sour face Al was pulling, the drink was making his pain worse from taste alone. He shot Sam a look of disdain, but continued to drink. Once he was done, Sam sat down to rest for a moment.

Clasped between both hands, the cup spoke a thousand stories, all of them hidden.

"Ya really think…that's part of a treasure…?"

Sam glanced toward his prone friend, then shrugged optimistically. "I'd _like_ to believe it is. I wish we'd had the opportunity to find out."

"Could still happen…" conceded Al with a mumble.

Scratching his nose, Sam considered it before shaking his head. "No. Edward and Robert will figure out what to do with it." He grinned. "Who knows? Maybe we'll read about it in the history books next leap."

Al returned a faint smile. Maybe.

"Okay," Sam sighed, pulling himself to his feet, "that's enough rest. Ready to get going?"

"Long 's I don't hafta drink any more tea…"

Snorting, Sam placed the cup in his pack and began to put it back on. Just as he was doing that, however, the sound of footsteps alerted him to visitors.

It was two of the robbers, guns raised.

Unbelievably, they'd tracked them here. They must've split up to cover more ground. Sam considered his options, but weariness and anger were clouding his judgment. Protect Al. That's all he could think.

" _Give us your bag!_ " the leader ordered as before.

"Oh come on!" Sam shouted as he dropped the pack, his anger winning out, "You already raided our camp; what more could you possibly want? You can't have followed us for one measly pack of supplies!"

" _I said, give us the bag!_ "

What was so damn important about his bag? It's not like the bandits were lost, and it didn't contain much of value, so why—

Except the cup.

That was it! Why didn't he see it the whole time? Their guides must have seen it and told their co-conspirators about it. It had never been about their supplies—those were just a bonus.

The leader stepped closer, waving the gun threateningly. The gun swung toward Al—

And Sam's foot flew straight into his face, knocking him flat on the ground. Grabbing the gun, Sam whipped up and pointed it at the second man before he could aim properly. He dropped the weapon, raising his hands in surrender.

"You want the cup?" Sam panted angrily, squatting down. Keeping the gun raised, he opened the bag and pulled the artifact out, tossing it straight into the baffled second robber's hands. "You can have the stupid thing! Just leave us alone!"

The men glanced at each other, puzzled. Sam shouted back at them in Spanish, gesturing his piece toward the jungle. With another wary look at each other, the men seemed to agree it was a good deal. The fallen man got up, and they retreated with their bounty.

With a sigh of relief, Sam tossed the gun aside and closed his eyes.

"Why'd ya give it up, Sam…?" asked Al, equally puzzled, "You could be right…'bout the treasure…"

True, Sam had won. But the artifact seemed less important than ever. In fact...he didn't want it anymore.

"I could be."

Without another word, Sam began to pull the pack back on.

Once night fell, Sam had to reluctantly stop again. His body was tired, but his heart wanted to keep going until Al was safe. But alas, he knew how impractical it would be. So that was one day down—hopefully only two more to go.

He was so very tired.

His stomach growled at him. He didn't have much left to eat, and he didn't want to use the last of it, in case Al...he wanted to save it. The hunger gave him a headache. He fantasized, if they were in a better situation, what he'd really like right now...

A BLT sandwich-extra bacon, extra lettuce-and fries. Big, chunky steak fries. And the largest, coolest glass of lemonade he could possibly get to wash it down. All in a clean, air-conditioned restaurant, with Al seated across from him. Enjoying...whatever his favorite food was. He was happy, and all was forgiven between them. They had nothing to worry about, and all the time in the world. They were themselves, and there was no Committee judging whether they lived or died. Wouldn't that be something.

The darkness lit up with a blinding square of light, disappearing as quickly as it came and depositing a nervous computer programmer in the jungle.

"Gooshie!" Sam gasped. Right now, they needed some good news.

"Doctor Beckett." Gooshie timidly leaned over to look at Al, squishing his eyebrows together with worry. "How is the admiral doing?"

"He's, um…he's holding on." Sam rubbed the back of his neck. "But I don't know for how much longer. Did you get Ziggy's mapping back?"

"Err—no."

"Damn it, Gooshie!" Sam's brief reprieve from this madness quickly fizzled out. He made a mental note that if they ever got back, Al might not even get the chance for his boxing match with Weitzman before Sam got to him.

"I'm sorry, Doctor Beckett!" Gooshie squeaked, "We tried, we really did, but the Committee won't budge until they come to an agreement concerning the rules. We think we've swayed one or two members, but we're going to need more time."

"Then what the hell are you here for?!"

"I-I-I wanted to, ch-check in—"

"He's dying, Gooshie!" Sam burst out, the reality scaring Gooshie stiff. Al was his friend too, sometimes. Sam closed the distance between them lividly. He had long since run out of patience or any sense of diplomacy with the godforsaken Committee. "I don't care what personal vendetta Weitzman has or what rules they think I've broken. If that's all they're concerned with, then I'm not interested in being part of this project anymore!" He stopped, making sure Gooshie got the message loud and clear. "If you're not gonna help us, I don't want you coming back."

Sam meant every word, and Gooshie knew it. His frayed nerves couldn't take much more, because this could very well be their last contact—and he wanted them home too. Not to mention, Tina would be absolutely outraged if he was even partially responsible for getting Al killed. He hated when Tina was mad at him.

He silently opened the door and disappeared.

For all Sam knew, for good.

Boiling hot fury flamed out into cold fear. Sam shivered in the warm night air. It was all so unsatisfyingly final. Turning around, he faced Al's pale body on the ground. God. He hoped he hadn't condemned them with his impulsive outburst. That had been his problem all along, not thinking things through. He just wanted something, _one thing_ , to go right on this leap.

He might've lost the Project, and Al might be leaving with them. His stomach twisted just at the thought of doing this alone again. He wished Al could tell him what to do.

He sniffed, approached his friend, and laid down on the ground next to him. He didn't care how hot it was. He wanted him close.

Voice shaking, Sam said softly, "We're in trouble, Al."

Even unconscious, Sam could see the pain in his features. In dreams, Al still wasn't at rest.

Al didn't like thinking about death as much as he'd been doing the last couple days. He preferred to keep those ghoulish thoughts away, spend his time thinking about living. Past, dark days had been spent thinking far too much on the subject for him to waste any time on it now. Except, he didn't have much of a choice under the current circumstances, what with the Grim Reaper hanging around his doorstep. It gave him some small amusement that Weitzman wouldn't get that prosecution he wanted, though. Looks like Al had the last laugh after all. He should've gotten shot ages ago.

Hell. This…this really could be it.

When he stopped to think about it, he had no idea what kind of legacy he'd be leaving behind. His past was…hazy. His present, uncertain. He had no wife (exes not included—and who'd wanna include them anyway?), no children, hell, no job at this point. He wasn't even entirely sure who he was, or had been.

No one was waiting for him, just like he'd said. He was struggling to think of what difference there was in a post-Calavicci world. The thought was more terrifying than dying itself.

But still. He didn't _want_ to die.

He'd wondered what to do now that he found Sam. Now he just wanted the opportunity to do anything else.

In the middle of the night, Sam was woken up by the sound of Al grunting beside him. He'd gotten used to hearing intermittent sounds, however, and was preparing to go back to sleep-but then he heard movement. Al was trying to get up.

"Hey!" Sam whispered sternly, sitting up and grabbing him. Al was ignoring him, determined to force his body to work again. "What're you doing? Hey, don't move! You're gonna hurt yourself!"

Slick with sweat and eyes bright and feverish, Al shook his head and struggled against him. "No, I have to go! I have…" He squeezed his eyes shut. "…I have to get to the Imaging Chamber!"

He thought he was in the future.

An alarmed Sam forced him back down. "Al. You're not at the Project."

"You don't understand!" Al cried out, unsuccessfully attempting to wriggle out from under Sam's hands, "Sam needs me!"

He didn't even know who he was talking to, he was so delirious. Fearing he would injure himself further, Sam decided to play along. "Don't worry, Al," Sam said reassuringly, "We've got someone filling in for you. Sam's fine."

At first, Al seemed to not believe him, narrowing one eye suspiciously, but in the end he relented and settled back down. "Listen…" he leaned his head in confidentially, "Don't tell Sam 'bout me being sick, okay? It'll only scare him…" Sam stared at him, his heart breaking. "Okay?" Al asked forcefully, demanding an answer.

"Okay," Sam promised, forcing a smile on his face, "Don't worry, Sam's in good hands. You just rest."

With the ghost of a relieved smile, Al nodded and almost immediately drifted off.

The disturbing moment was past. Sam fell onto his back exhaustedly, rolling to face away from Al. A short time, his body forcibly calm.

And then, everything broke down. The entire situation crumbled in on itself, every wrong turn, every failure, everything Sam had done in the past-the leaps he'd screwed up, the missing spark, the broken trust, the blood all over his hands as he'd tried to stop Al's wound, the blood that was caked on his shirt now and stunk, and Al telling him no-it _was_ his fault-just like it had been all those times before-everything was falling apart.

He clutched his head, breaking down into muffled sobs.

 _The woods are lovely, dark and deep,_

 _But I have promises to keep,_

 _And miles to go before I sleep,_

 _And miles to go before I sleep._

The poem cycled through Sam's head, reminding him what he owed, too much to remain broken. His leaden feet trudged onward, his hands clasped tightly around Al's stretcher, the weight of the world pulling him down. But he refused to let it crush him, or reach his friend. If he needed to, he'd be his shield and let the avalanche beat into his back. If he gave up, so did Al, and hope was all that was keeping him alive. Last night would be the last time he broke down.

Sam passed the time by talking to Al, trying to raise his spirits, about anything and everything. Act normal. Don't let Al fall into despair.

"So if you attached a piece of toast butter-side up," Sam panted with a laugh, "to the back of a cat, and dropped them both off a building…and toast always lands butter-side down, and a cat always lands on its feet…which way do they land? Would it cause an anti-gravitational effect?" He twirled his finger in the air. "The cat and the toast would perpetually spin to right themselves!" He laughed again. Al didn't respond, of course, but he'd spent most of this journey listening.

Except now. "Sam."

Sam glanced back at Al, and stopped. He looked so broken, so tired.

"I need you…t'do somethin' for me…"

"What is it?" Sam asked, using the back of his hand to wipe the sweat off his lip.

"Don't…don't bury me here…" Al's mouth quivered, he let out a soft sob. "I don't wanna be left in the jungle again…"

For the first time, he was really showing how frightened he was.

Immediately, Sam set down the stretcher and knelt at his friend's side. This was the most wretched and petrified Al had ever looked. "No, Al, listen." He put both determined hands over Al's. "You're not dead. So don't give up."

Al grimaced and looked away, but Sam squeezed his hand and made sure he was paying attention.

"I'm so, so sorry for what I did in the past," Sam said intensely, "But believe me when I say I'm never leaving you behind again. Even if that means I die here too. I'm here with you no matter what."

Underneath Al's fear was an ember of trust, hoping beyond hope Sam meant it this time so it could be stoked into a flame. Inside Sam, he was burning to prove himself.

He would have no more blood on his hands.

"Now let's go. We're wasting daylight." Now more upbeat, Sam took hold of the stretcher again. He squinted upwards at the sun beating down on them from above the trees. Then, began to jauntily sing _Bring Me Sunshine_. Nothing like a little ironic humor to lighten the mood.

The sunshine didn't stay long; it was pouring when they stopped for the night. They'd covered a lot of ground, wherever they were going. The fatigue Sam was feeling by the time the jungle turned black was a good sign—he'd worked that much harder to get them there. He stopped when it became too dark to safely travel, and refilled their canteen with rainwater.

"We're getting somewhere," Sam said optimistically, "I can feel it."

But Al looked like a dead man. If he hadn't been checking in on him constantly, Sam would be sure he was. It was beginning to feel like everything he was doing was like holding liquid in his hands—try as he might, Al's life was slipping away. And no amount of positive attitude was going to stave off the inevitable.

Sam hated to see him in such godawful shape, ashen and stiff and his bandages red. But the worst part was his haunted stare, his empty eyes. Al didn't just look like his body had given up— _everything_ was shutting down.

"I got some more water," Sam said. Al didn't respond. He held the canteen to his lips, but Al didn't move. Tipping it over anyway, the water simply ran down Al's chin. "C'mon, Al," Sam pleaded, hanging his head, "You have to drink."

 _Do something. Anything. Just_ try _._

Slowly, Al blinked. Whatever energy Sam was sending out to keep him going, a microscopic part jostled at him, forced that little bit out. _That's it, Al. Keep fighting._

Sam tried again. This time, pitifully, Al managed to choke some of it down.

"Oh, Al…" Sam sighed, wiping at his eyes.

It all seemed so hopeless. He was having trouble fighting himself. Forcing himself up, he went to grab the blankets.

"Sam…" It was barely a rasp, the sound of the wind brushing against leaves. Only just heard over the rain.

Sam's chest tightened. He turned himself around. God, it was good to hear his voice.

Al's chapped lips barely moved, pressed to speak with what little breath he had. "I forgive…you…"

A beat. Why did it seem so hollow now, when he'd wanted it so badly? Sam felt as if he were at a wake, his stretcher the coffin he'd built. Did Al see him with a shovel in his hands?

Scarcely keeping himself together, Sam returned a grateful grin. "See you tomorrow, Al," he promised.

"Don't…think so…"

At that moment, Sam knew Al had given up. And if Al Calavicci gave up, it was a dire situation. It tore out Sam's heart and stamped it on the floor, made any forgiveness meaningless because Sam hadn't forgiven himself yet. If he lost Al…he didn't know what he would do. He needed him more than he could adequately express.

Time was running out. He was losing his best friend.

 _Please. If anyone is out there listening, God, Time, Fate, Whatever you call yourself…don't take him from me._

It wasn't exactly a prayer. He wasn't sure what he believed. But he knew some higher power had decided this was what he and Al were meant to do, and they needed a miracle.

A miracle came in the form of a redheaded programmer with a gunky mustache and rumpled lab coat.

"Doctor Beckett! Doctor Beckett, wake up!"

Sam awoke with a jolt, only to find Gooshie inches from his face, which startled him further. "Ah! Huh…? Gooshie?" he rubbed at his eyes.

"Get up!" Gooshie encouraged, waving his hands and glancing behind him, "I don't know how much time we have!"

Standing up in confusion, Sam asked, "What's going on?"

"We're getting you and Admiral Calavicci out, that's what's going on!"

Sam lit up. "The Committee changed their minds?"

"Well, not exactly," Gooshie admitted, wringing his hands. He took a deep breath. "But, we talked it over at the Project, carefully considered our options, exhausted every possible outcome, and we unanimously came to the conclusion…to hell with the Committee!"

For once, he looked immensely proud of himself. And Sam, filling back up with what he thought he'd lost, was proud of him too. So they had the guts after all. Gradually, his tired face broke out into a smile.

Gooshie bounced on his feet, pleased with himself. "I hacked back into the system and got Ziggy running again. We're, er—'borrowing' her," he said with a wink.

"Gooshie, you magnificent man!" Sam had never loved him more than he did now. He made to hug him before remembering he was a hologram, so instead he gave him a big thumbs up.

"Oh…" Embarrassed, Gooshie turned red. He'd forgotten for a moment too. "I-It's nothing, Doctor Beckett. But I don't know how long until they find out what we've done, so we need to get moving. Besides…" He looked toward Al with worry. Sam got the picture.

"How far away are we?"

"You were on the right track! Ziggy says it should be another half a day!"

A huge wave of relief hit Sam like a brick wall. All of a sudden, they were getting all the breaks. "Thank you," Sam breathed. He grabbed his bag and Al's stretcher. Oh, but one more thing. "Gooshie..." he asked curiously, "What happened to Barry Butler?"

Gooshie checked the handlink, scratching his mustache. "Hmm…it looks like you changed history! He finds his way back to civilization in another three days. Suffering from malnutrition, but…he makes a full recovery."

Sam nodded, relieved despite the man's horrid actions. He didn't want to be responsible for his death, no matter how despicable he was. Plus, well, it could have to do with the leap since he was part of their group. "And…us?"

Again Gooshie consulted the handlink, but shrugged apologetically. "No data yet. But Ziggy says there's a 94.9% chance once you see the city, you'll both leap!"

Those odds made Sam suddenly feel a whole lot stronger.

Half a day blew right by, with Gooshie in the lead and a new hope inside Sam. They would finish this leap after all. After feeling his lowest, today he'd found a new compass to guide them back on track. They'd really come through for him, and he felt proud to have them as his friends. And he'd needed the reminding that there were still people on his side, and not everything was lost.

How could he have given them up?

Al was right, but there was something else Sam had learned. He couldn't do this alone, but he couldn't simply rely on the Project to provide what he'd had inside him all along. They needed each other. He'd never lost his spark. He just needed Al—and Gooshie, and Sammy Jo—to help him find it again.

Sam had made a lot of mistakes, but if he could do this one thing, he'd feel cleaner. He wasn't going to let Al down again, but he didn't just want him to live. He wanted him to know just how important he was. The best person he'd ever known, and a far greater friend than anyone could ask for.

They crossed over the hill, and there stood the most beautiful city he'd ever seen. Happy tears welled up in his eyes.

"We're here, Al," he said joyously, "we made it."

He looked down. Al was unmoving, staring blankly up.

"Al?"

No.

He wasn't gone. He wasn't gone, damn it!

While Gooshie watched on anxiously, Sam fell to his aching knees and shook Al by the shoulders. This couldn't be for nothing. He'd never shut him out again, he had to believe that. "Al, c'mon! Don't do this! We can leap! We can leap!" Al's unblinking eyes continued to stare. Sam gritted his teeth, pounding angrily at his chest. "Damn it, I need you!"

Nothing.

"AAAA—"

"—LLL!"

The blue light disappeared. He was standing in a bedroom, hands on someone's shoulders.

In front of him, a gaping Al, very much alive.

Al's wide eyes blinked and, just to be sure he was real, he felt his stomach. "Sam?" he gasped, unsure, "Did I make it?"

"AL!" Sam shouted in elation, and he swept him up in unbridled joy, filled with indescribable happiness. He was here! God, he was here! He never wanted to let him go. "You have no idea how happy I am to see you!"

"Are you kiddin' me?" Al asked with disbelief, "You don't know how happy I am to see _you_! Jeez louise, that was close!"

"Al, I never want you to think you're unimportant; you're my best friend," Sam said, the words tumbling out of his mouth, "And I want you here, and alive, and I promise never to take you for granted again. From now on, we're partners. And I—"

"Okay okay, jeez! No need to go overboard!" Al chuckled, pushing him away, but really, he loved every word of it.

When they parted, he met Sam's gaze with embarrassed relief. No one had done as much for him as Sam had. Not many people would drag themselves through hell and back to get a dead man across the Amazon. And for a minute there, Al was sure he was. And he realized now that it didn't matter what the next step was now that he'd found him, he was just happy to do it with Sam…who really, truly wanted him there. At last, there was someone in his life who wouldn't give up on him.

Quietly, he began to express his thanks. "Sam, I—"

The door opened, and their heads whipped over to see a blonde woman in a robe and curlers, thoughts of their brush with life and death momentarily shifted from their minds. "Laura! Kimberly! Are you _still_ not ready? Hurry up or you'll miss the bus!" She pointed sternly at Sam. "And no fighting with your sister over shoes this morning. _Get along_." She slunk out of the room, and Sam and Al faced each other with dawning horror.

"Laura?"

"Kimberly?"

They looked down at their dresses.

"Oh boy!"


End file.
